Sinner, Sinner
by Umeko
Summary: Is there any redeeming quality to Milady? One-shot.


Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.

This one is for readers who feel Dumas did not treat Milady's character fairly in the novels by having her painfully underdeveloped and flat. It is also my response to the anniversary challenge.

Is there any redeeming quality to Milady?

**Sinner, Sinner**

Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting jewels of light on the worn flagstones of the church and aged pews alike. Looking down from the choir loft, it seemed that she was looking down on swards of shimmering flowers. She pulled her cloak closer about her, careful to keep her hood up and her face hidden. _Where was he?_ The air was still crisp with winter's bite. Spring was late this year. Lent started with a dusting of snow over the city. It was only now that the first reluctant rays of the spring sun deigned to warm the city streets.

The pews were empty of all but the most stubbornly devout parishioners and those waiting for confession. A frail-looking priest walked briskly to the confessional, to the reluctant gratitude of the waiting penitents. Easter was approaching.

Soon it would be summer… She reached for her throat as she fancied she felt the bite of the noose. The linen rope burnt her skin. He used to enjoy kissing her there when they were in bed. He was both young and handsome, and heir to a grand title. From the first stirrings of womanhood, she knew she had a beauty that almost all men found irresistible. _What had gone wrong? _They had been quarrelling before the ride - something about the old man's money. Her husband had been in a foul temper. Then the foolish horse threw her and all the carefully woven lies unravelled. She should have known that domestic bliss was never her lot in life, to be at the beck and call of an inferior man like him…

The line before the confessional inched along. One of the penitents caught her eye. _It was him_. He was deaf to her pleas for mercy then and hung her from a tree. What business had he now to come crawling to God's house to beg forgiveness? Fate saw it fit for her to live… He was going into the confessional now. _Would he confess to murdering his own wife?_ _The same one he had sworn to love and protect before God to the end of his days, then turned and spat on that promise? _Soundlessly, she followed him, pace for pace along the gallery as he walked. Halfway down the gallery, she paused and cast her eyes towards the precious bundle she had left in the choir stall.

A tiny hand reached out from the basket. _No, not now…_ she silently chided the child. He had already nursed earlier, but there never seemed to be enough milk. The infant sucked his thumb and dozed off, lulled by the fragrance of polished wood and incense. They had not known then of the little one she was already carrying. Despite all her precautions she had borne his child… She had not known until she was too far along. This was a complication she had not foreseen. She had toyed with the idea of abandoning the brat on the street, but no longer. He was her child and carried her blood in his veins… Her heart ached.

_Would he start crying?_ No, he was still asleep. _Good._ She will keep him somehow No one was going to take him away…

She took off her cloak and draped it over the basket to shade her tiny son from the sun. Having sheltered him thus, she returned her attention to the confessional. He was leaving now, striding down the aisle with purposeful strides. She flitted down the length of the loft, careful to keep hidden. If he knew, he'd take her child away from her. He was out in the streets now. She peered through the stained glass windows.

He walked over to where a pair of the King's Musketeers lounged lazily outside a cookhouse. Oliver de la Fere thumped the large man on the shoulder and took his hat from the smaller man. Greetings were exchanged between friends as they tied on their capes and donned their hats. As one, they swung into their saddles and ambled off.

There was a cough behind her. A swish of red robes. "I sincerely hope I have not kept you waiting…" the voice was careful and guarded, like a viper before it struck. The Cardinal was here.

"No, Your Eminence…" Milady turned and bobbed a curtsy. It was time to put her attention on the business at hand. As soon as the business was concluded, she'd take her son and find them some new lodgings, and perhaps a nursemaid. Her son was not thriving on her thin milk.

* * *

"What's wrong, Athos?" Aramis asked as his friend reined in his horse and turned to look at the rose window of the church he had just left.

"Nothing…" Athos shrugged. He had a distinct sensation of being watched earlier, but it was gone now. Perhaps it was nothing but a figment of his imagination. The image of a young girl came unbidden to his mind's eye. Even now her fragile beauty stole his breath away. _What might have been and what could have been._ He resolutely forced her image away. No, that illusion was over and done with. No point looking back for something that never was.

"Let's go, Monsieur de Treville would be waiting," he urged his comrades and spurred his horse on.

**Author's Notes:**

Traditionally, Mordaunt was taken as Lord de Winter's son. However, what if Mordaunt's father was Athos? It makes me wonder how the relationship (if any) between Milady and her son would be like.


End file.
